Longing
by wingless'd
Summary: A oneshot on Cloud's feelings for Aerith during a very small portion of The Case of Tifa.


Cloud stared out of the window of the bar. Tifa worked silently behind the counter; the clinking of the glasses she washed was the only sound that could be heard. The air was thick with her questions, but Cloud had no desire to answer them. Distantly, he appreciated her concern, but what he was feeling he couldn't share with her. Couldn't share with anyone.

He needed to escape. This house, these responsibilities, the children, all of these things weighed heavily in his mind. He was drifting. Tifa seemed to think they would become a family of sorts, but Cloud just couldn't cope with the situation.

Truthfully, he couldn't cope with anything.

He'd delivered the package to the Forgotten City. A dozen white lilies. He had been there once before, since that time two years ago. But he hadn't been alone then. This time, this time he had been alone. Alone, standing at the water where, at the bottom, the body of the one he hadn't been able to save lay. He'd stared at those gentle lapping waves and had set the flowers at the edge of the water. It was peaceful, eerily peaceful.

As though everything was right. As though everything was the way it ought to be.

Except it wasn't. Nothing was right. Nothing could be right. The peaceful nature of that place had brought everything back that he'd been fighting so hard to set aside. As he'd left, taking the remaining chocobo that they'd still kept for long distance runs, something had changed in him. An emptiness that he had been trying so desperately to fill yawned its great jaws within him, clenching him tightly and refusing release.

The guilt returned, swiftly. He'd consoled himself, throughout their journey, that there was nothing he could have done—that her death could not have been prevented, that it had taken his all just to keep Sephiroth from controlling him. And with that meager consolation, he had been able to start over again. He had tried. He had tried to forgive himself.

Returning to that place had opened the latch that held those memories at bay. And suddenly, as he'd continued back home to Edge, he felt keenly the lack of her presence, of her laughter, of her anger, of her mischievous smile. He could not stop the memories any more than he could have stopped Sephiroth all those years ago. Meeting her, protecting her, consoling her, laughing with her, fighting with her. She filled the whole of his mind and by the time he had returned to Edge and Seventh Heaven, where Tifa and Marlene waited for him, he was drowning in a past he could not bring back no matter how hard he tried.

A past with a girl he had allowed to slip from his fingers with his own hands.

Did she hate him? Did she think fondly of him? Did she care either way? He couldn't imagine her hating him; it wasn't in her nature. She hadn't even hated Sephiroth—she'd merely been determined to stop his madness. Butt what if she did? What if she had died knowing that he had not saved her, that he had just watched as Sephiroth's sword pierced her?

With these thoughts, Cloud sat at the bar and stared out at the statue of the angel that towered above Edge as though by its presence alone it could ward off all danger. The angel looked so like her face when she had looked up at him, smiling warmly, that last time. Her eyes were full of joy, the joy of living. And he'd not fulfilled his promise. He'd stood there, so still, and let her fall to Sephiroth.

"Mind if I join you?" Tifa's voice broke through his thoughts.

"I want to drink alone."

"Then go drink in your room," Tifa snapped, her voice unnaturally sharp.

Cloud tore his eyes away from the statue and looked steadily at her for a moment. Then, without a word, he stood up and walked away from her, from her bar, from Marlene, and from Seventh Heaven.

………………………………………………………………..

He wandered, not knowing where to go. The moon winked down brightly, as though mocking him. He wondered if she would forgive him. He wondered if he should be forgiven. She hadn't deserved to die; he should have died in her place. And yet his feed hadn't moved, he hadn't caught her in his arms and pulled her from danger the way a bodyguard should.

His feet dragged him forward, but his eyes saw nothing save his memories. His failure bloomed larger with each step until he could no longer remember the comforting lies he had told himself to set aside his fears. He needed to see her, to hear her voice. He wanted her to laugh at him, to tell him that he was being ridiculous. But he couldn't reach her anymore.

He looked up and started. He had left Edge entirely and entered the ruins of the city once called Midgar. The rubble piled high about him left a heavy emptiness that lingered in the air. This place was like him—this place was him. He and Midgar were one, inseparable signs of failure. The rubble was the life he had failed to protect, the lies he had built to secure his self-confidence, the lies he had told her without knowing he could never fulfill their promise.

He began to run.

Stumbling through rubble, he kept up his speed. His mind drifted back to the time when he had run like this with her at his side. It had been in this area, too, that they had escaped the pursuit of the Turks for the first time. His eyes scanned about him; he was nearing the edge that would lead from the old Sector Four into Sector Five.

There it was.

Almost completely undamaged, save for the roof having caved in further due to the explosion in Midgar, the church stood serenely among the surrounding rubble. He paused in front of it, hesitating. It was the place he had been searching for without realizing he was searching for it, and yet now he was afraid to enter. Would he see her? Would he be able to meet her? Would there just be a ghost of her, as he had thought there had been when he'd last entered this place?

Stealing himself, he pushed open the heavy door. Although it was not day, the church seemed filled with soft light. The gaping hole in the roof allowed the moon to enfold the interior in a gentle blanket of light. He walked forward, through the empty pews, toward the center of the church. He sucked in a breath and stopped.

Her flowers were growing. Untended, they still flourished at the center of the church where the pulpit should have been. His feet moved him forward until he reached the edge of the wildness. He collapsed on their welcoming green as though he had been longing for this all his life.

Perhaps he had been.

His eyes closed as he inhaled the delicate scent of the flowers surrounding him. For the first time in many months, he felt his consciousness sliding into something that resembled sleep. He wondered vaguely if she'd sent this, if she was perhaps truly watching him. If perhaps she didn't hate him so bitterly after all.

Something brushed his shoulder. His eyes snapped open. He sat up, his eyes scanning the room for movement. For a fleeting second, he thought he saw a flash of pink darting into the back room where he and she had escaped from the Turks two years before.

"Aerith?!"

He stood up rapidly, following after the movement.

Upon entered the room that led to the roof, he realized he'd been seeing things. An overwhelming hopelessness settled inside of him. He fell to his knees, staring at the ruins of the other side of the church. She had left him. He truly had failed her, and he'd even invaded her sanctuary. Of course she would leave him. Of course she wasn't even there in the first place. He'd imagined her presence, as he'd imagined her so many times before.

His arm began to throb.


End file.
